


Mortification of the Flesh

by benzoin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Guilt, In a metaphorical sense, Masturbation, Sacrilege, Self-Flagellation, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Spit As Lube, Unsafe Sex, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4021519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benzoin/pseuds/benzoin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=1808912#cmt1808912">a prompt</a> on the <a href="http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/">Daredevil Kinkmeme</a></p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I am a horrible person, but I want Matt "punishing" himself for something (I don't care what) by fucking himself with a crucifix and not letting himself come.</p>
  <p>(Maybe he comes anyway and just feels worse about everything.)</p>
</blockquote><i>his face twists up with something like pain, but not that pure</i>
            </blockquote>





	Mortification of the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> i know this got archive tags but i just want to throw in a quick **CW for heavy sacrilegious themes, de/recontextualized Bible verses, self-harm (not cutting), self-hate, guilt, blood, descriptions of injuries, descriptions of violent acts, unsafe behavior coming from a bad mental/emotional place. and seriously fucking insufficient lubrication.** just to elaborate a little further and just in case.
> 
> clearly, it is disrespectful as all get out to put a representation of god incarnate into your ass and i understand this. although this is basically PWP, i hope i did a decent job of accounting for the emotional state required to make such an obviously bad choice.

Matt's hands are still covered in blood when he stumbles into his apartment through the window. It's not his, not all of it. He knows his shirt is soaked to the elbows, the sick-making way it sticks against his skin, too thick to be anything else. Inside, in the filtered air of his apartment, the smell of it covers everything but the smell of his arousal. Together, an animal reek, something base and filthy. His body heat makes it unignorable and smothering, like the curl of guilt clutching up in his throat.

He needs to ~~get out of these clothes, run the shower scalding hot, scrub his nails until they're sore and peeling,stand under the spray until he smells nothing but skin and borax, touch himself, God, yes, please, _touch himself_~~ , he needs to hold the urge down, filter the sensory input. Filter out the aching press and tug of his tight jeans against his cock with every fractional motion. Filter out the way that the stretch of his split knuckles sends sparks down his spine. The tight cage burn of broken ribs. The sharp, nasty thrill of driving someone's body into pavement hard, the crack and ricochet of ruined bone and ruined flesh. Filter until there's nothing. 

No. 

That's weak, that's complacent. It's not enough, he needs to confront it. Fucking sick, selfish in the most degenerate way, making this about him, about what it does for his dick instead of what's best for this city. There's no enjoyment in this work. No pride. This is about doing the awful things that need to be done so that no one else (God, he prays, he prays) will ever have to know what it's like to run for blocks on broken bones, to take a knife to a man's ear, to all his soft places, to scream in the dark. Because he can take it on, he can swallow it all, even when it sticks in his throat, Hell's Kitchen's sin-eater. 

His stomach rolls, he tastes bile at the back of his throat. Not enough, feeling dirty but managing to find a way to feel sorry for himself, to recast himself a martyr. _All about you, isn't it, Matty,_ he snarls at himself, someone else's words slipping into his mouth. 

He stands on shaking legs, bites his tongue to hold back on a groan at the way the motion pulls the seam of his jeans against his cock. This is nothing like contrition. He walks to his room, to his closet, shoves the hanging clothes aside to sweep the wall for his crucifix. 

Cool rosewood under his fingers, he brings it down with him when he lands on his knees hard enough to send a jarring echo up through his bruised bones, lighting up every hairline fracture. He traces the outline of it with his fingers over and over, the repetitive motion quieting the vicious whirl of _filthy, filthy, don't pretend you're not doing it because you fucking like it, because it gets you hard, no better than the human trash you roll around with._

And the wood is slick under his sweating palms, his fingertips slipping along it quick and desperate, his breath coming quick and shallow, imagining his hands on himself. Until he realizes with a long, near-silent inhale, teeth bared, until he cracks, tears slipping down his face. Messy sobs, he tries to remember a prayer. Forgiveness. Contrition. _Please_ , deliverance. 

“Blessed... blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.,” he curls his fist around the crucifix, words coming frantic, thick with tears, “Blessed is the man against whom the Lord counts no iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no deceit.”

“For when I kept silent,” his face twists up with something like pain, but not that pure, “my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For – oh God – day and night your, your hand was h-heavy upon me, _fuck_ \- my strength was dried up, as in the heat of summer,” he grips tighter, feels the edges of it bite into his palms, concentrates there for a moment, those bright points of sensation. 

“I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not cover my iniquity,” _not enough_ he drives it into his stomach, once, hard, lets it take his breath, lets the resulting gasp slam his lungs against his battered ribs, lets himself feel the way it goes straight to his dick. He realizes in that moment, what he needs is to feel so _wrong_ he'll never end up wanting and _wanting_ like this again. The crucifix in his hands, him kneeling, legs spread and grinding his hips against air. 

His fingers are slow and clumsy as they scrabble against his zipper, the button of his fly, he lands on his ass, jerks his hips into the air as he hauls his his jeans down roughly. The acrid spent-adrenaline smell of the sweat on his bare skin, the tremor of his hard cock, hanging between his legs. He hooks his fingers into his mouth, the dirty penny taste of them, nails scraping at the inside of his cheek, spits into his palm as he pulls them free. He preps himself, perfunctory, frustrating, keeping himself right at the edge of _feeling it_ , lets another miserable sob loose as he pulls himself wide enough to feel empty.

He spits again, again, takes the crucifix between his knuckles, polished wood shining wet, hesitates with a horrible twist of his stomach that feels something like disgust and something like desire but not enough like either to make sense to him. Even stretched loose and pliant, the shape of it is all wrong for this, he can feel the brutal, precise corners pressing into him as he tries to take it in. It's a slow, slow push and he's breathing into it but the angle's all wrong. 

His pants get caught on his boots on the way off, the shirt stays, the blood is important. Keeps him focused, reminds him why he's doing this. The hot metal smell of it is whining like a bandsaw at the edge of his awareness, fresh again with the sweat and heat of his tense, trembling body. He squats, balancing on the balls of his feet, hand under him as he sinks down onto it, eyes closed tight, jaw set.

It hurts, just like it should. A burgeoning _intrusive_ feeling that centers all of his awareness, makes him feel every tiny motion as he presses it in, each shake of his unsteady hand, his own pulse. He pushes and it feels like he's only just managed to take in the very tip of it, moving in fractions of fractions until he's sliding down onto it in a way that makes him feel run through, hollows his chest with deep, aching breaths.

He pulls out, thrusts in deeper and deeper until he feels cold metal press against him, a reminder of what it is inside him and what he is doing, the pinioned feet of the Corpus. He lifts his hand, laps at his fingers until they're dripping, rubs and works at himself until he's open enough to take them in, but it's a stretch, the chill of the metal against the heat of him sending a shudder through his belly. A long, deliberate sink down onto the slope of His legs, the sharp points of His bent knees that leaves him pleading with God, to grant him forgiveness, willpower, to chasten him. 

His mouth turns down wretchedly as he gets both hands under him, pushes until his head falls back, all of him hauled tight as a garrote.

He remembers that he'd chosen this crucifix because he could _feel_ how expressively the Corpus had been crafted, the stark relief of Christ's ribs as His body bows out in pain, the anguished slack of His mouth as He cried out his last. The mouth pressed up against the curl of his ringfinger, the cage of His gaunt ribs stretching him wide. He can't press any further, his thighs quake as he tries. He feels raw, opened up, like a wound. 

Slowly, carefully, he pulls the crucifix free, the contours of the Corpus' body hauling new sobs from him on the way out, the cross without landmarks feels endless, he's suddenly as aware of the uncompromising edges of it as he was when he first worked it inside of himself. He clenches up around the new, empty space, the sore hollowness inside of him. He flutters and throbs with it, breathing in jerky little gasps, body frantic with the lack of sensation and desperate to create more until his hips jerk once and he comes with a silent tremble. Two tears, a thin, reedy whine and his own spunk dripping into his cupped hands in fat drops as he knows for certain that he's failed.

“I will – God, oh my God, my _God_ – instruct you and teach you in the way you should go,” he says, small and broken, remembering the Psalm in fragments, “I will counsel you with my eye upon you. Be not... like a horse or a mule, without understanding, which must be- be curbed with bit and bridle, or it will not stay near you.”

He knows which part of that verse describes him.


End file.
